Inspiration
by The Fruit and the Loopy
Summary: After writer's block hits, Writer takes a risk and heads out to Earth for some inspiration. He found it, but not in quite the way he expected. T for swearing.


A/N: THIS IS SHAMELESS FLUFF. THOU HAS BEEN WARNED BY THE ALMIGHTY AUTHOR.

*thunder booms in the distance*

Ghostwriter was frustrated.

For the first time in his sixty-year (well, really eighty if you counted his living years) existence, he had no idea what to write. Despite his outwardly introverted and quiet exterior, he had a veritable wellspring of imagination. He would write and write away while his novels filled his endless library. He would never, in a million years, run out of ideas. The world was simply too invigorating, even if the world he found such interest in was purely fictional.

Until today.

"Damn it!" he growled, slamming his fist on the table in an unusual fit of anger. He sighed and rubbed his head. Propping his head up with his arm, he stared at the computer screen. It was blank, glaring and unyielding.

Nothing.

"Ugh." He slumped back into his chair, arms dangling from the sides. Spared a glance out of the window into the endless, chaotic abyss of the Ghost Zone. Purple doors, floating rocks, the speck of the Far Frozen in the distance. Same view as always. No amazing thunderbolt of enlightenment, even the faintest glimmer of an idea came into mind's eye.

He had _writer's block_.

He knew only one place that was actually different enough to set of his imagination, but it was foolhardy and a very, very stupid idea. The ghost kid would find him, kick his sorry ass and send him back into the mundane-ness that was the Ghost Zone.

Green. He was sick of the colour – it was everywhere he went for the better part of sixty years. Ghost kid be damned, he was going to a portal and getting the hell out of there.

He sat up and stretched. He didn't know how the hell it worked, but it was satisfying to stretch, even though that was supposedly impossible since he was _dead_. He straightened out his clothes and stepped outside.

Two hours, a spat with Technus, a quick runaway from Ember (pissed because Skulker did something stupid, he guessed,) a run-in with some strange three-headed dragon, and trying diplomacy with Klemper (a lost cause, he knew), he finally arrived at the Fenton portal. He cautiously stepped through, pen and sheaves of paper in hand. He was already exhausted, but he had battled too hard to get to the damn portal and he wasn't going to give up. Yet.

Cautiously peeking into the lab with only his head, he was relieved to see that the kid or his friends weren't around. He walked in and zoomed through the house intangibly. Looking around to make sure he wasn't really being trailed by the kid (the kid was smarter than he looked, he'd grant him that), he relaxed, went invisible and flew off to the park.

He had almost forgotten how nice it was in the human world. Sunset had just kicked in, lighting the sky with oranges and pinks, with the barest hues of lavender at the ends. The cool wind licked deliciously at his face. He smiled and landed on a park bench, the rough old wood scratching his back lightly. He took out his pen and paper and looked up.

"Might as well start describing stuff." he muttered to himself. It was an old trick he used to jumpstart his imagination when it was being stubborn. He started to scratch out a description of the sky in his neat print on the lined paper.

_The sun streaks across the sky, painting the blue with washes of watercolour pinks and oranges. Purple just barely runs through the blues and pinks, tinging it with a kind of lavender magic. It yawns above me, enveloping me in the beauty of the sunset._

When he was still alive, it was his personal favourite time of the day. He remembered a clear memory from his childhood; a young, cherubic joy rising up and flying around him like a bird who just learned the art of flight. The sky's big, puffy, white clouds had suddenly taken on the most gorgeous pink-orange. Rich gold permeated them in streaks. He remembered the absurd correlation with caramel ice cream his mind created when he was younger. He would pretend to pluck the ice-cream clouds out of the sky and eat them up, licking imaginary ice-cream off of his lips.

"Down the memory lane, aren't we?" He jolted violently at the unexpected voice. He relaxed when he saw it was just another person. A girl, with gorgeous red hair, set neatly with a blue headband. He realized belatedly, _Shit, it's the ghost kid's sister!_ He had made sure his unearthly glow was turned down. She probably had an ectogun or ten shoved down her sleeves like her parents.

"Jeez, don't spaz like that. I just said hi." Her voice bore no ill will. He fumbled for an answer, preferably snarky - "U-um, well, you didn't s-say hi, y-you said something about a memory lane. And yeah, I w-was. I guess?"

His self-inflicted social ineptness had never shown even more than then. Jazz just laughed lightly.

"You don't go out often, do you?" She sat down, her light black windbreaker fluttering a bit. He just nodded mutely. "Introvert," he mumbled. "Don't like company all that much. Too noisy." Why the hell didn't he bail? He wanted to just turn invisible and fly off –

She was the ghost kid's sister. He was screwed if he did that. Also, she seemed like good company as long as she wasn't pointing one of those stupid thermoses and trying to suck him into that soup can.

In his head, he threw up mental arms and said, _Aw, what the hell. Why not._

He realized he was staring at something blankly while thinking. Usually it wouldn't be a problem. Unfortunately for him, he was staring at her._ Fuck!_

"Oh, u-um, sorry I spaced out again it happens a lot," he mumbled in a rush.

She laughed airily. "Don't worry, my little brother does that a _lot._ Especially when he's thinking about a certain goth girl," she sang. She smiled. "I bet even you know those two are going to get together. Danny Fenton? I'm sure even you know him."

He nodded mutely. She shifted, looking at the lined papers, sitting in his lap. "May I?" He blinked, then nodded. She smiled, daintily picked out the first pages, and began to read. She finished it quickly while he watched her, looking for signs of approval that maybe, just maybe, she'd like it.

She handed it back. "I really like your description, it's very beautiful. 'Lavender magic,'" Jazz mused, "That's a really unique way of describing it. What's it for?" She blinked her teal eyes, waiting for an answer.

"It's just an imagination jump-starter. Works really well. I had writer's block so I came out here for some inspiration." he said softly.

Jazz nodded. "I like to do that sometimes, too." She stretches her arms behind the benched, folding them behind her head. "It's soothing, isn't it? I study psychology, and it's proven to relieve stress by allowing the writer to subconsciously write away his or her problems and relieve whatever is bothering them." Ghostwriter smiled.

"Hmm. Fellow intellectual, huh?" he muttered. "You like psychology?" he asked in a louder voice. She nodded enthusiastically.

"Yep! I've studied numerous books since I was about eight, and taken online courses to improve some of my knowledge, attended lectures, and I've been planning to attend Crane College and work on a degree in psychology and parapsychology. I actually have a book in the makings on the subject of Ghost Envy and . . ." She kept on letting the 'psychobabble' flow out of her mouth. Ghostwriter listened to every minute of it.

When he finally got home, he took his reality-changing, ever trusty keyboard, and typed out his story. Just the bare bones, mind you, but his story was destined to be beautiful. He knew it.

And for the first time, he tried his hand at romance.


End file.
